


they all need something to hold onto

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: The Spanish Princess (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29345463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: “They would like to see you married to a prominent Stewart with Scotland and Clan Stewart’s best interests at heart.”“Married?” she repeats in shock.“Ideally, the marriage would be between you and the Duke of Albany, but as the duke is married, we have decided it would be best if you married his brother and representative in all things.”It takes a long moment for Meg to understand his meaning.The Duke of Albany’s brother.Alexander Stewart.The pig.
Relationships: Margaret Tudor/Alexander Stewart
Comments: 19
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back on their Megander bullshit? 
> 
> I'm really excited to post this and I hope you guys are excited to read it! This is still a WIP, but I hope to have it finished relatively soon. Updates will be sporadic in the meantime.

Meg had known it was only a matter of time after that disastrous first Parliament for the nobles to try to overrule her, and honestly, she’s surprised she makes it three months before they do.

A faction of Stewarts, Humes, and Hamiltons unexpectedly call on her at Holyroodhouse in mid-December. Meg greets them politely enough, but she has a feeling this visit is going to end poorly.

In true Scottish fashion, the nobles do not waste time; instead, they cut right to the chase.

“The fact of the matter, madam, is that you are English, not Scottish,” says James Hamilton, First Earl of Arran. “Scotland has been ruled by the English before, and we will nae let it happen again.”

Meg well understands the Scottish hatred of the English, just as she understands the English hatred of the Scottish. She also understands that, as much as she hates these particular men right now, she was sent here to make peace between their two countries, not further divide them, and after Henry’s little campaign against France, there is a great deal of peace to be made. So rather than snap off a retort, she forces herself to be calm and asks, “Then what is your suggestion, my lord?”

He and the other nobles look relieved that she is not putting up a fight. Perhaps she underestimated her own power here.

“Your Grace, you say your brother has promised peace if you remain unwed...but it is the concern of many that your brother’s influence is already, ah, too strong here in Scotland.” Arran glances at the other nobles, who give him encouraging looks. “We, and others, would prefer if we knew the regent had Scotland’s best interests at heart.”

“And you think because my brother is the King of England, I do not have Scotland’s best interests at heart?”

Hume mutters something she doesn’t catch. She decides it’s probably better that way.

“We do,” Arran lies, but he does it so gallantly she can forgive him for it, “but there are others who...would like proof.”

Meg takes a deep breath. That sounds promising. Prove her loyalty to Scotland. She can do that, especially if it means keeping the boys. “Alright. What sort of proof?”

They glance at each other. 

“Ah, well…” Arran is clearly regretting being the spokesperson for the party. “They would like to see you...married to a prominent Stewart with Scotland and Clan Stewart’s best interests at heart.”

“Married?” she repeats in shock. 

“Ideally, the marriage would be between you and the Duke of Albany,” Arran plunges ahead, face white, “but as the duke is married, we have decided it would be best...if you married his brother and representative in all things.”

It takes a long moment for Meg to understand his meaning. 

The Duke of Albany’s brother.

Alexander Stewart.

_ The pig. _

“My husband, your king, has only been dead three months,” she says in a voice shaking with anger, “and you want me to marry  _ him?!” _ She points furiously at the bridegroom in question.

Alexander Stewart, for his part, looks as neutral as it is possible for him to look, hands clasped and eyes downcast. She wonders how much of this was his idea, and whether it was designed solely to torment her. 

“We would of course allow a period of mourning,” Arran hastens to add. 

“You would  _ allow _ it?”

Arran swallows, sensing that his poor choice of words has only added to the queen’s already evident displeasure. “We would not expect Your Grace to marry before an...appropriate amount of time has passed.”

“And what is an  _ appropriate _ amount of time?” she demands.

“Ah...a year from your husband’s death.”

Her stomach turns at the thought. “And if I refuse?”

She can sense more than hear the anxious intake of breath. “Then...Parliament would no longer recognize you as regent, and custody of your sons would be given over to the Duke of Albany.”

She grits her teeth. So, she must either marry Albany’s brother and let him lord it over her, or she must give over the regency completely. Either way, Alexander Stewart and his cronies win...and Meg loses. 

_ But what else did I expect? _

There’s got to be a way around this. The Douglases are notably absent; she wonders how they would feel if they knew the Stewarts were strong-arming their queen into marrying one of them. Well, another one of them. 

And there is Henry to consider. He will not stand for her remarrying, let alone to a Stewart. She wonders how long it would take for him to send aid if she wrote to him.

And yet…

Sending for aid means sending for an army. An army means fighting. Fighting means driving a wedge even deeper into the conflict between their two countries. If she asks Henry for help, it will show the people of Scotland that she values having power over helping her people. And what’s more, the nobles know that. 

They’ve caught her neat as a hare in a snare.

Jaw set, she asks stiffly, “May I have some time to consider your...generous proposition?”

“Of course,” Arran says, pouncing at the opportunity to leave. “We will return in one month.” He looks around at the others for approval; finding no resistance, he begins to usher the nobles out of the room.

Alexander is the last to leave, turning to give her a flinty smile. “I wouldnae recommend writing te yer brother about this.”

She returns his unfeeling smile. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, Lord Stewart.”

His smile widens as he gives her a mocking bow, leaving the room.

As soon as he is gone, Meg seizes a plate from the table and hurls it at the mantel, screaming. 

_ Damn you, James, for leaving things like this. _


	2. Chapter 2

She cannot sleep for a week, tossing and turning as she tries to think of a way out of this. If she could just get word to someone who would be sympathetic to her cause…

And what? Start a clan feud? Or worse, war with England?

Her anger is enough to make her consider starting either or both of these...but another, more logical, part of her knows that she shouldn’t risk that. Clan feuds are brutal, and nothing like the petty fights between English lords. And a war with England would surely decimate Scotland, for if the combined clans at Flodden were defeated by peasants led by a pregnant woman, she can’t even imagine what the full might of Henry’s army would do. 

Is her holding onto the regency truly worth risking so many lives? Would she ever be able to forgive herself for starting a war just so she could rule as regent? Would her father up in Heaven ever forgive her?

And even if she did forgive herself, would the people of Scotland? Their memory is long, as she’s learned in her ten years here, and her reign would never be secure. And really, why should they forgive her? She is an Englishwoman, and her fighting to rule Scotland is not something they would take kindly to. 

It makes her sick to her stomach. As much as she hates to admit it, she understands why the nobles put her in this position. They can never be sure that she isn’t working towards England’s best interests, her  _ brother’s _ best interests, as long as she remains unwed. And her taking another husband wouldn’t be a guarantee, because what if her husband was working towards England’s best interests, too? It has to be someone the nobles trust to uphold Scotland’s best interests without question. 

And that person is Alexander Stewart. 

She hates it. She hates  _ him.  _ She would rather marry almost any other man. 

But if she is to earn the trust of the nobles and commons alike, it must be him. 

Not for the first time since his visit with the other nobles, she wonders how much of this was his idea. She knows he has no love for her; indeed, he is rude if not downright cruel to her at every turn. Does he truly love Scotland so much that he would be willing to put aside his hatred for her and take her for a wife? 

There is, she supposes, only one way to find out.

.

At long last, she sends a messenger to Edinburgh Castle, bidding Alexander Stewart to meet her in the Chapel Royal. The messenger returns two hours later, telling her that Lord Stewart will meet her in one hour’s time.

She waits for him in the chapel, touching the beads of her rosary as she prays for strength and guidance. Maybe, she thinks, this won’t be the worst thing in the world.

She feels his presence before she sees him, his footfalls echoing off the high stone walls. She finishes her prayers with the sign of the cross, finally opening her eyes. Though she looks ahead, she can see him out of the corner of her eye, sitting a respectful distance beside her. 

“Well?” he asks, not impolitely. 

She takes a deep breath. “Why did you agree to it?”

“Te meet you here?”

“To marry me.”

He heaves a sigh. “It’s the best thing fer everyone.”

She turns to look at him. “But you  _ hate _ me.”

“True,” he says without hesitation, “but I love Scotland more than I hate you.”

“Well, that’s some small reassurance, I suppose.”

“Are you saying yer hatred fer me outweighs yer love for yer sons?”

“Almost,” she quips, and then takes a steadying breath. “I know...that it’s best for Scotland. But...my brother will not like it.”

“He doesnae rule Scotland.”

“No,” she agrees. “He doesn’t. But he will not like it all the same. I do not think it will come to war, but it will make things difficult.”

“I imagine things would be more difficult if you were removed from the regency altogether.”

“True,” she allows. “But I don’t want to be held accountable if he tries something. I  _ did _ say he promised peace if I did not marry.”

“Fair enough.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he contemplates the stained glass windows. “And what are yer other objections?”

“Not objections; concerns.”

_ “Concerns, _ then.”

She clasps her hands in her lap. “As my husband, you would legally be entitled to everything I have. My estates, my money, even custody of my children. How do I know you will not abuse this privilege?”

“We’ll draw up a contract,” he says simply. “Stating what’s yours is yours and what’s mine is mine.”

She considers this. “Alright.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Do you intend to claim...other...marital rights?”

He hides a smile behind his hand, pretending to smooth his beard. “With you? Nae.”

“Good,” she mutters.

“That it?”

“No. Come with me.” She gets up, moving past him to the antechamber off the altar. He follows without a word as she leads him to the stone slab over James’s body. Someday there will be an effigy of him, but his death is still so recent that it has not been completed. Alexander stands across the slab from her, regarding her curiously. She lays a hand over the cold stone, summoning her courage to meet his gaze. “Swear on my husband’s grave that you will not let harm come to me.”

Alexander’s jaw tightens. “Yer a shrewd woman.”

“Better a shrewd woman than a foolish one,” she says flatly. “You hate me, as you’ve just said, and we both know you’d benefit if something were to mysteriously happen to me. I need an assurance that that will not happen. If your intentions are as noble as you claim, there should be no impediment to you making this vow.”

He considers her. “The same could be said of you: you’d benefit if something happened te me. If I’m going te swear, you should too.”

“Fine. I, Margaret of the House of Tudor, swear on the grave of my husband, James the Fourth of His Name, that I will let no harm come to Alexander Stewart if it is within my power to stop it.” She looks at him expectantly.

To her secret relief, Alexander places his hand over the stone slab. “I, Alexander of the Clan Stewart, swear on the grave of my cousin, James the Fourth of His Name, that I will let no harm come te Margaret of the House of Tudor if it is within my power te stop it.”

“Good,” she says, removing her hand. “Then you may tell the others that I will consent to this marriage.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Just like that?”

“Well, it wasn’t as though I had many options.”

He hesitates, hand still on James’s tomb. “James was my cousin, and his sons are my kin, too. You and I hate each other and I do not expect marriage te change that. But we both want what’s best fer those boys.”

She lowers her eyes, nodding. Alexander leaves, his footfalls echoing off the high stone walls until they fade out completely. 

Meg leans down, resting her cheek on the cold stone of James’s grave.

“Tell me this is the right thing to do,” she whispers.

But James is still and silent beneath cold, unyielding stone. 


	3. Chapter 3

Though the Earl of Arran calls upon Meg to thank her profusely for her cooperation and to gently suggest that she not mention the marriage until a more appropriate time, the other nobles inevitably find out before long; not two months after she’s agreed to the Stewart proposal, the Douglases come to call on her.

Meg does not know what to do. She has made her peace with the fact that she must marry Alexander Stewart, for even if the Douglases offered to help her, the inevitable clan feud would not be worth it. But to tell them that she has chosen to marry Alexander Stewart may be seen as an insult; at the very least, it would seem disrespectful to the memory of her only recently departed husband, and that would stir up trouble of its own kind.

There is no winning, whatever she does, so she has her lady-in-waiting, Ellen, apologize to the Douglases and tell them the queen is indisposed and cannot receive visitors. Ellen was born in Africa but raised in Portugal, and when she is in a mood, her usually charming accent becomes a torrent of furious Portugese. Meg hopes that this will be enough to deter the Douglases, and they do leave relatively quickly, but Ellen comes back with a shaking head.

“They’ll be back tomorrow, Your Grace, I guarantee it.”

Ellen is right; the Douglases do return the next day, and the next, and according to Ellen, they lose more patience each time. 

“You cannot be indisposed every day, Your Grace.”

“I know,” Meg sighs. “But no matter what I say to them, someone is going to get upset. And where the Stewarts and the Douglases are involved…”

“It could be a clan feud,  _ o sim _ .”

Meg considers. She had not wanted to involve the Stewarts, but she can see no way around it. If she says the wrong thing to the Douglases, they’ll come down on the Stewarts and the Stewarts will come down on her for misspeaking. But if she continues to avoid the Douglases, then they’ll get angry and come down on the Stewarts, who will come down on her for not speaking at all.

Perhaps she’s overthinking things, but then, perhaps not. She has learned it’s safer to overthink than not think at all, so she sends a letter to the Earl of Arran asking for guidance in this matter. Let  _ him _ deal with the Douglases; she certainly didn’t ask for this.

Once the letter has been dispatched, she changes into her riding clothes and has her horse saddled. Though it’s bitterly cold outside, her daily ride is one of the only things that brings her any pleasure these days, a blissful respite from the tedium of her responsibilities and the pain of her memories. Riding lets her escape it all. 

She’s several paces ahead of her guards, riding hard when she hears a faint cry over the thunder of her horse’s hooves. She glances to her left, seeing a man on horse approaching her. When she slows, she sees that it is the Earl of Angus. 

Meg hesitates. On the one hand, Angus is a Douglas, and one of the Douglases that has been to call on her every day. On the other, he had believed in her vision when not even James had, and they had shared that moment in the chapel. He is not as bad as the others.

At any rate, she can’t very well ignore him now, so she urges her horse to a halt, patting the beast’s neck as it catches its breath. 

“Good morrow, Your Grace,” Angus calls as he draws closer, his breath misting in the cold air.

“Good morrow, my lord,” she returns. 

“I am glad to see you are not ill.”

“No.” She flushes, knowing she must invent an excuse. “I was--”

“Unwilling to speak to a group of old men descending on you without warning? I cannae blame you for that,” he says conspiratorially.

Meg cannot help but smile. “Well…”

“I know my family can be a bit...aggressive, at times,” he says, his tone more serious now. “But they mean well.”

She believes him--or at least, she wants to. And then it occurs to her that perhaps Angus is the bridge between her and the Douglases. “Will you ride with me, Lord Douglas?”

He bows his head. “I would be honored.”

She urges her horse on in a much more leisurely pace than the one from before. Angus falls into place beside her, her guards following at a distance.

“I presume your family wants to confirm the rumors?”

“They do,” Angus admits. “Are they...true?”

She heaves a sigh. “I am to marry Alexander Stewart, yes.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you...being forced?”

She hesitates. She feels that she can be honest with him, more so than she can with any other man...but he is, after all, a Douglas. “I don’t have a knife held to my throat. I...am in a difficult position. I believe that marrying Lord Stewart would be the best course of action.”

“But for whom?” Angus asks softly.

“For Scotland, and for my sons.”

“Did your brother the king not say there would be peace as long as you remained unmarried?”

“He did, but...it has been pointed out to me that as an Englishwoman, the nobles will never feel fully comfortable with me as regent unless I have a Scottish husband with Scottish interests at heart.”

In a gentle tone, Angus asks, “They said they would not recognize you as regent if you did not marry Stewart, didn’t they?”

She doesn’t answer that.

“Your Grace, say the word and Clan Douglas will rise--’

“No,” she says at once, cutting him off. “There will be no rising, no fighting. Scotland has already suffered enough losses because of my family; I will not add to its suffering.”

Angus regards her with a soft smile. “You are a true queen, putting your people above yourself.”

“That is the only way to be queen.” Nevertheless, she appreciates the compliment. The Stewarts seem to regard her as a burden to bear, and to be told that she is a true queen and not just an obstacle...well, it feels nice. 

“Still,” he says after a moment, “is there not...some way around this marriage? I know of your...contempt for him.”

“I wish there was, but...I do not see any way around it.” She smiles wryly. “I have said too much already.”

“Your Grace, threatening to take away the regency if you do not marry the younger brother of the man who would be regent…”

“I know,” she sighs, “but what am I to do without sending this country back into war? With each other or with England? I could never live with myself if I did that.”

“Some wars are worth fighting,” he says fiercely. “Especially if they are in the pursuit of justice.”

“Spoken like a true Scotsman.” Her smile fades. “There would be no justice served if more men died so that I could be regent. Lord Stewart and I have made an agreement. It...is not an ideal situation, but it could be far worse. There will be peace this way, and that is the important thing.” 

“I understand.” In a softer tone, he adds, “But if ever you are in need of aid, Your Grace, Clan Douglas is at your service.”

She smiles at him. “Thank you, Lord Douglas. I will remember it.”

She only prays that she won’t be in need of anyone’s aid.


	4. Chapter 4

Even as the days grow longer, brighter, and warmer, Meg’s world becomes bleaker, for every day that passes brings her that much closer to marrying Alexander Stewart.

She tries to remind herself that Alexander can only be so terrible; he has said he has no interest in claiming his marital rights, and the offer to draw up a contract has set her at least a little at ease. And swearing over James’s body that he would not only not let harm come to her, but that he also wanted what was best for the boys, has given her some reassurance.

But still. It’s  _ Alexander Stewart. _ They had never gotten along before, and then he’d actively wanted her to step down as regent. This marriage may seem like a compromise, but she just knows he’s going to make her life a living hell. 

The only bright spot in her days are her daily rides, which more and more she takes with Angus. It has been so long since she felt like she had a true friend, and though she knows she must take a measure of caution with him because of his place on the Privy Council and his clan’s rivalry with the Stewarts, she feels as though she can trust him. Angus is different from the other nobles, thoughtful and sensitive where they...are not. He listens to her and doesn’t make her feel stupid or inferior becaue of her sex or her country of birth. 

And she likes listening to him, too. He has ideas that she has a feeling he’s never shared with anyone before, ideas on a better, more progressive Scotland. The Privy Council would laugh him out of hearing if he spoke such ideas aloud...but here, with Meg, he knows he can be himself. Meg is honored by his confidence in her. 

He is a poet, too, and often tries new compositions on his indulgent audience. It is not the best poetry she’s ever heard, but he is the first to admit that he is inexperienced in his craft, and she is sure he will get better. In the meantime, she is happy to be a listening ear and to encourage him in his pursuits.

Sometimes they talk about England; the people she knew there, the places she’d seen. Angus is fascinated by the country, and always seems to want to know more. 

“Perhaps I’ll take you sometime,” she says, half in jest and half serious. 

“I’d like that,” he says with a smile.

That’s another thing she likes about Angus; how often and easily they can dream. Of going to England, of changing Scotland…

Of getting married.

It’s a dream that neither of them has dared speak aloud yet, but Meg knows they both feel it. She is always happy to see him riding across the field towards her, and the smile on his face when she says his name...

What she wouldn’t give to trade Alexander for Angus! She would be safe and happy with Angus, and together, they could change Scotland for the better. 

But it’s just a dream. Taking Angus to England to visit her brother and Thomas More has a higher chance of happening than their getting married. 

She sees very little of her true husband-to-be in those months before their nuptials, save for the Privy Council and Parliament meetings she must attend, and even then she avoids interacting with him or even looking at him if she can help it. She can’t stand looking at his smug face--or at least, what she can see of it beneath that mass of shaggy black hair. 

_ If it had been  _ **_anyone_ ** _ else… _

“Is it terrible of me,” she asks Angus one day in July, “that I wish...something would happen to him? For him to...fall off his horse and break his neck or something?”

“You wouldnae be the first person to wish that of Alexander Stewart,” Angus says wryly. 

The horses have worked up a lather in the high summer heat, so they dismount at a stream and let the horses drink. While the guards are tending to the horses, Meg takes Angus’s arm, walking through the shaded copse. 

“Are you truly convinced to do this thing, Your Grace?” Angus asks softly. “To marry this horrible man you hate?”

She heaves a sigh. “What choice do I have?” 

“You could marry another.”

She huffs out a small laugh. “Who?”

“Me.”

She sucks in a breath, looking up at Angus. He’s looking at her earnestly, the way every woman hopes a man will look at her. Not even James had ever looked at her like that. 

“Angus,” she says softly.

And then he’s bending down to kiss her.

Meg closes her eyes, sighing softly when Angus kisses her. His kiss is gentle and sweet...but at the same time, it is too much. It has been less than a year since James died, and in only two months she is to wed again. She cannot kiss Angus, no matter how much she wants to.

So she pulls back, lowering her eyes. “No. I...I can’t.”

“Forgive me,” Angus says at once. “I didnae mean--”

She shakes her head. “I should not have encouraged you. I...wish that it was you I was marrying,” she admits. “But I must marry Alexander Stewart, and that is final.” 

“Of course,” he says with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She moves past him, heading back to the horses. She holds her head up high, but when she rides back to Holyrood, there are bitter tears in her eyes. 

.

Angus does not join Meg on any of her rides after that. She knows that it’s probably for the best, given the circumstances, but he’s the closest thing she has to a friend, and she had been counting on his company for her last two months of freedom. Without him, her rides are dull and lonely.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the days pass quickly, and suddenly it is September ninth.

_ I have been widowed for a full year, _ Meg thinks sadly. One year without James, one year that her infant son has been king, one year that she has tried to rule as regent.

And only one day until she is to leave for Stirling, where she and Alexander will be wed. 

The Stewart faction has been nothing if not expeditious; the Earl of Arran had informed her he was  _ generously _ sending an armed guard to escort her to Stirling, but she knows that this is less a move of generosity and more an assurance that she will not attempt to flee, nor will any of her sympathizers attempt to carry out a friendly abduction. The thought of the thinly-veiled mistrust irks her, but she supposes she cannot fault them for wanting to be cautious. If she were going to attempt something, after all, now would be the time to do it.

Still. She wonders if this mistrust is only temporary, or something she will have to deal with for the rest of her life. 

But surely,  _ surely, _ marrying a man everyone knows she hates will be enough to convince them of her loyalty to Scotland. And if it is not, she does not know what will.

.

Her armed escort arrives bright and early in the morning, led by the Earl of Arran. Alexander, she knows, has ridden ahead of them; for that, she is grateful.

The journey to Stirling, already a long one, is made even longer by the slow pace they must take for the boys, who are still too small to be traveling great distances. Meg doesn’t mind the slow pace; every hour not spent with her future husband is an hour well-spent, in her opinion.

She chooses to ride ahorse rather than sit in the carriage with her flock of ladies, nurses, and her young sons. She has always preferred to ride ahorse when she can, and anyway, with so many attendants crammed in the carriage, it is far too noisy, stuffy, and smelly for her taste. 

Instead, she rides alongside the Earl of Arran, who keeps up a steady stream of polite but inane chatter. She likes the earl well enough; as much as she can like a man who’d sanctioned strong-arming her into a marriage she does not want, at any rate. 

They stop for the night at Linlithgow, easily Meg’s favorite of the royal residences. On the shores of a loch by the same name, the castle has always been a quiet refuge from court. She has many happy memories of this place, giving birth to Jamie among them. She remembers looking out at the loch with her infant son in her arms, the early spring sun glinting on the water, and feeling utterly at peace. 

She feels less peace on this occasion, knowing that in the morning she’ll have to complete her journey to Stirling and to her new husband, but she decides to enjoy her brief time here nonetheless. She orders her lady-in-waiting Ellen to play the lute during dinner, and after the boys have been put down, she wanders down to the dock. 

One thing she’s never gotten used to about Scotland is how much colder it is than England. In England, September always had a few hot days here and there, the last bursts of warmth before the autumn chill fully set in, but it is not so in Scotland. The autumn chill sets in much earlier, and even now, just ten days into September, the night air turns her breath into mist. It is even colder beside the loch, the wind bringing a cold spray of water, but Meg has come wrapped in her cloak, and she tucks her legs under her as she sits on the dock. 

She’s always liked being near water. It calms her, and the steady rush of water helps her clear her mind so she can focus. 

She had heard her Aunt Cecily once say that they were descended from the goddess Melusina. Grandmother had said that that was fanciful nonsense spouted by Meg’s great-grandmother, the Countess Rivers, but her other Woodville aunts and great-aunts had all given an affirmative when she’d dared to ask. 

“Magic runs in our veins,” they’d said with conspiratorial smiles. “Not everyone has the gift, but your grandmother and your great-grandmother did.”

“And my mother?” Meg had asked, and the smiles had become fixed in place.

“She does not believe in the gift; more’s the pity.”

“Do I have it?”

“You may be too young to know,” Aunt Cecily had said. “Your mother was nearly a woman grown when she had her first Seeing; perhaps it will be the same for you.”

Over the years, Meg had truly forgotten about the gift she may or may not have had. She had been so distracted by, well, everything. But now, a year after Flodden, a year after trying to warn her husband about the dream she’d  _ known _ to be a warning…

She cannot help but wonder. 

Despite the chill, she lies down on her stomach, dipping her hand in the water. It’s cold, as she knew it would be, but she feels a tingle on her skin that she doesn’t just think is the temperature.

“Show me the future,” she says, her breath misting over the water.

She waits for a long moment, but nothing happens. No visions, no dreams, no woman appearing from the water. Just Meg, with her fingers in the cold water. 

Cursing herself for her foolish fancy, she gets up, heading back to the castle. Her mother was right not to believe; it’s all a bunch of nonsense.

.

When she sleeps that night, however, she has a dream, as terrible and  _ real _ as the dream she’d had before Flodden.

In the dream, she is in the copse with Angus again, closing her eyes as he leans down to kiss her. But the warmth in his lips turns suddenly cold, and when she opens her eyes, it is not Angus she’s kissing, but Alexander. She pulls back, upset, and sees blood trickling out of his mouth, his eyes wide and glassy. He’s dead, she realizes, watching in horror as he falls back and shatters like glass.

She wakes with a start, breathing hard as the dream fades away. She’s shaken, tears in her eyes for some reason she doesn’t understand. 

More than a little shaken, she goes to her window, looking outside at the moon and starlight glinting over the loch. Is this the future she had asked to see? Or is this something else?

Not for the first time, she wishes her mother was here to help her understand. Her mother, or her Aunt Cecily, or someone,  _ anyone. _

_ But I am alone, just as I have been since I left England. _

.

In the morning, she sets out from Linlithgow with a heavy heart. She did not sleep well after her dream last night, and slept even less well knowing that today she will have to see her husband-to-be. 

“First, we will have the handfasting,” Arran tells her as they make a leisurely pace along the road. “Presided over by Archbishop Beaton.”

Another man who hates Meg. Wonderful.

“Then the banns must be read, and after that will be the wedding.”

“Are you sure reading the banns is advisable, given the circumstances?” she asks. “I mean, what if someone  _ does _ object?”

“Well...that is always a possibility,” Arran admits reluctantly. “But as there is no civil or canon impediment to the marriage, that should not be an issue.”

“The Douglases may argue a lack of consent.”

“The Douglases may do a great many things,” Arran sniffs. “But I trust that should such an objection arise--”

An arrow sails through the air, striking the captain in front of them.

Shouts and screams fill the air as more arrows descend on them. Meg looks about nervously, seeing men lurking in the trees. Some of them are ahorse, some on foot, but all of them are moving in on the armed escort.

“Protect the king and the queen!” Arran shouts, drawing his sword. 

All around her swords are clanging and men are swinging punches. She looks back at the carriage, seeing Arran’s men surrounding it with swords and shields. 

It is at that moment that three men rush at her, one seizing her horse by the reins while the other two attempt to pull her off. 

“Get your hands off me!” she shouts, smacking their heads as hard as she can.

“Yer Grace, please come with us,” one of them says sternly, wincing as she smacks his head.

“Not bloody likely!” She digs her heels into her horse’s sides, trying to urge the creature to bolt away from these men; the mare rears up, knocking the men down as she whinnies frightfully. Meg clings to her back, shouting when the horse lands on the ground again and makes for an opening in the battle. But their path is blocked by men fighting, and when the mare rears back again, Meg tumbles to the ground, unhurt but shaken. All around her, men are fighting, swords clashing and shields clacking. A few bodies lie strewn on the ground, and Meg tries not to think about them as she pulls herself to her feet, dodging men as she makes her way to the carriage.

Arran’s men are still surrounding the carriage, defending the king with their lives. Meg knows if she can just get to them, she’ll be alright--

But something passes over her eyes, and a moment later, there is a gag in her mouth. She lashes out, trying to break free, but the man behind her wraps the gag tight, rendering her temporarily immobile.

“I’m sorry about this, Your Grace,” he murmurs, and starts to lead her off.

Meg doesn’t know what comes over her, only some instinct that tells her to go suddenly limp. She does, and her captor, braced for resistance, drops her immediately. It gives her just enough time to roll away and towards the carriage; she crawls between two of Arran’s men, and then the man who tried to capture her meets the pointy end of a blade. 

He isn’t familiar, isn’t even wearing tartan or a pin that would identify his clan--which, Meg supposes, is the whole point. She wonders who this man is, and why his brothers-in-arms are attacking them.

It makes little odds; it soon becomes apparent that Arran’s men will be the victors, and the assailants begin to turn and flee. 

“After them!” Meg shouts, but Arran shakes his head.

“It could be a trap, designed to lure us away so they can come back for you and the king. We must press on to Stirling; we can send men to chase after them once you and the king are secure.”

Meg knows this is the logical solution, but she also knows that by the time they make it to Stirling and rustle up a raiding party, the men who attacked them will be gone. 

Once she’d made sure her sons are alright, she mounts her horse and they set off again for Stirling, albeit at a faster pace than before.

“Who do you think they were?” she asks Arran.

He hesitates. “It’s hard to say...but whoever it was did not want this marriage to go through.” He hesitates again. “Have you...heard from your brother in England?”

“Henry? No.” It had been heavily suggested she not tell Henry about the wedding until after it happened, and Meg had agreed, for telling her brother before the wedding would surely make him try to stop it. He’ll be furious when he finds out, but he won’t be able to do anything about it when the time comes. Unless… “You think those men were sent by my brother?”

“If not your brother, then men who wish to ally themselves with him.”

She glances at the earl. “Douglases?”

He winces. “It’s difficult to say as yet, Your Grace. We’ll know more when we track them down.”

_ If, you mean. _

.

They’ve hardly arrived at Stirling before Arran is issuing orders for armed men to comb the area. Meg knows it will be too late for them to find anything of substance, but she wisely refrains from speaking as her things are unloaded and taken up to her apartments.

Arran and his men are gone most of the day, and do not return until the evening. Alexander is among them, and Meg cannot help hoping, however uncharitably, that her future husband will run into her attackers and not return; it is to her dismay, then, when he returns with the others that evening.

“Ye don’t look happy te see me, wife,” he says when she comes into the council chamber where he, Arran, Hume, Beaton, and Lennox are discussing their search.

“We are not married yet,” she says coldly. 

“Aye,” he says just as coldly, “we are not. As the men who tried te  _ abduct _ you earlier today knew.”

She frowns. “What are you saying?”

Arran looks uncomfortable. “Alexander…”

Alexander ignores him. “Did you have something te do with this?”

She gapes at him. “Are you  _ serious?” _

“Deadly.”

Meg flushes with anger. “Why on earth would I arrange my own abduction?!”

“We all know you’ve been resistant te this marriage—“

“So I  _ must _ have tried to get myself kidnapped to get out of it, is that it?”

“Well?”

She could slap him, she really could. “No, I didn’t have anything to do with it!” she snaps. “I’ve had a whole year to get out of this marriage, you think I’d wait until the eleventh hour to try something that would put my sons in danger?”

“Someone knew you were coming te Stirling today,” he says stubbornly.

“And it couldn’t have possibly been any of the hundreds of servants and attendants who made the traveling arrangements, I suppose.” She whirls on Arran. “Is this your theory, too?”

“Of course not,” the earl says far too quickly. “We...we have no sound theories as of yet.”

“Perhaps if we had pursued them when they first fled and not hours later, we would know more,” Meg says bitterly. 

“There is no point dwelling on what might have been,” Beaton rumbles. “Whoever it was was trying to prevent the wedding. My recommendation would be to have the handfasting tonight; if Her Grace is truly innocent, she will have no issue moving up the plight troth, and only an annulment from the Holy Father would be able to undo the troth.”

Everyone is quiet for a long moment as they consider this. Then Meg says, “Fine. Shall we go to the chapel now?”

“Now?” Alexander asks in surprise.

“Now,” she confirms. “Unless there is some impediment I am not aware of.” She looks around at the small assembly. “We have enough witnesses, we have the Archbishop, and we have the bride and bridegroom. That should suffice, Archbishop, should it not?”

“It will more than suffice,” the Archbishop allows. 

“Then let us proceed to the chapel.”

.

With only Arran, Hume, and Lennox acting as witnesses, Meg troths her plight to Alexander in the wide, empty Chapel Royal. He smells of sweat and horse, his boots still muddy from the ride, and in the dim candlelight, his glower is all the uglier.

This is the sort of man Meg thought she was marrying all those years ago, back when her family had betrothed her to James. She’d expected to find a savage, and had instead found a gentle, handsome man with a good heart. James had surprised her.

There will be no such surprises with Alexander, whom she has known for over a decade now. He will not suddenly become gentle or handsome, or reveal a hidden good heart. 

The thought makes her heart sink even lower.  _ I am bound to this man for all eternity, until death do us part...and let us pray it is his death, and not mine. _


	5. Chapter 5

In the days leading up to the wedding, Stirling slowly fills with wedding guests. Most of them are Stewarts and Hamiltons, but there are Humes and Gordons and even a few Douglases in attendance. 

Angus is one of the Douglases to attend, and it gladdens Meg’s heart to see him, even if he does keep a respectful distance. At least she has a friend here, or something like one. 

One of the last guests to arrive is her stepdaughter Margaret, James’s daughter by the late Margaret Drummond. She wed a Gordon two years before and has only recently given birth to their first son. 

“He’s as strong and bonny as his father,” Margaret says proudly when Meg asks about him. “Of course, we Drummonds have always had sturdier stock than most.”

Meg pretends not to hear the slight intended for her. Margaret had never liked her stepmother, despite Meg’s attempts to befriend her. It is rumored that James meant to marry Margaret Drummond and had even gone so far as to troth his plight. There are still worse rumors that Margaret Drummond had been poisoned, either by an ambitious rival or someone who wanted the way clear for James to marry Meg and unite the crowns. 

They are only rumors, of course; any hope James had had of marrying Margaret Drummond died with the birth of their bastard, and it is widely accepted that Margaret Drummond and her sisters died of food poisoning, not  _ real _ poison. 

Even so, the young Margaret has never liked Meg, which she supposes is fair; to her young mind, she would always see Meg as her mother’s replacement, the woman who married her father when it  _ should _ have been her mother. Privately, Meg has always thought James spoiled his daughter past the point of redemption, and had been a little relieved when he finally sent her north to marry John Gordon. 

Marrying John Gordon and having a baby does not seem to have done much for Margaret, unfortunately; she has not forgotten that her late father was the king, nor have the members of court. Margaret was always James’s favorite daughter, petted and spoiled like a true princess, and everyone remembers it.

_ Whereas I am just an Englishwoman, and little more than a prisoner here. _

.

At last, the banns have been read and the day of the wedding arrives. Meg rises at the crack of dawn, having been unable to sleep all the night before.

Her ladies-in-waiting dress her in red and green, the colors of Clan Stewart’s tartan so that she will match her new husband. She’s been wearing Stewart colors for years now, ever since she married James, but she knows it is especially important she does so today, so that everyone will know the queen is still married to Clan Stewart and will not be swayed by another clan.

When she is dressed and ready, a procession of attendants escorts her to the chapel; the same chapel where thirty days before, she and Alexander were handfasted before three witnesses still in their riding boots. 

Today’s assembly is much bigger and better dressed. They are all in their finery, washed and combed and watching expectantly as Meg walks down the aisle alone. Alexander is at the altar with Archbishop Beaton, both of them seeming to look through her rather than at her. That’s just as well. 

When she reaches the altar, Alexander turns to kneel on one of the gold satin pillows. But Meg hesitates, the gravity of what she is about to do finally settling on her. 

She is about to take this man, a man she hates, for her husband. In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do them part, and what God will join together, no man can put asunder. 

Can she truly give herself to this man? Knowing that he will never love or respect her, knowing that it may mean losing her power here? That it may mean losing custody of her sons? Contracts and oaths had been made, but what do those mean to a man like Alexander Stewart? 

But what choice does she have? She’s let this go too far to turn back now. She’s quite literally at the altar; to turn away now would be the end of her. 

So she kneels beside Alexander and takes him for her husband.

.

The ceremony passes in a blur of Latin and tolling bells. Meg feels as though she’s watching herself from a distance, going through the motions without really feeling them. She leaves the chapel in a daze, and comes back to herself sometime during the feast.

She drinks more than she eats, her stomach too raw to hold down much. She barely looks at her new husband, pretending to be absorbed in the entertainment. 

And there is plenty of it--dancing, singing, even some play-acting. Meg endures it, deciding she would rather be sitting here than lying beside Alexander alone in her room.

He had said he doesn’t intend to claim marital rights, but he has already demonstrated that he does not trust her...so why should she trust him? What if he intends to claim his rights on this night? After all, the marriage isn’t valid if it’s not consummated, and she knows how hard he’s been pressing for this marriage. 

_ I’m an idiot, _ she thinks, not for the first time. 

But she will not be an idiot tonight. Before she leaves for the bedding ceremony, she slips her dinner knife off the table and hides it up the sleeve of her dress. Once in her room, she makes a pretense of dabbing lavender oil on the pillows while really concealing her knife beneath one. 

Her ladies-in-waiting undress her, replacing her wedding finery with a nightgown. The pearls are removed from her hair, her long plaits unwound and her hair brushed out until it shines. 

She is still sitting at her vanity when she hears loud men’s voices from the adjoining chamber. She can hear ribald jokes, nothing she hasn’t heard before...and then Hume teases, “We should stay in the room te make sure it gets consummated, ‘cause there won’t be blood on the sheets with this one!”

“Oh, there’ll be blood on the sheets when I’m done with her,” Alexander fires back, and the men roar with laughter. 

Meg feels a flush of anger and fear as her ladies fall silent, none of them certain of what to say. And what would they say? “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Your Grace?”

Unbidden, tears spring to her eyes. She’s tired, she’s  _ so tired _ of this, of enduring one humiliation after another to prove herself to men, to  _ a man, _ that she doesn’t even like. And for what? So he can stand outside her chamber door and say things like this?

The door bursts open before she can even rise, and it occurs to her that they could have walked in on her naked. 

_ They don’t even care. _

She does rise now, subtly wiping the tears so that they will not see. “Well,” she says unsteadily, “let’s get this over with.”

Archbishop Beaton has already begun blessing the bed when she sits upon it; to her horror, Alexander pulls off his shirt. Even more horrifying is the fact that the body he’s been concealing beneath ill-fitting jerkins and thick tartan is actually...well, not unpleasing to look at. He is toned and muscled, and the dark hair flecked across his chest and stomach makes him somehow more…

What? Attractive?

She will not think that. Not here. Not now.

To her surprise, Alexander interrupts Beaton’s prattling with, “Out. Everyone out.”

Beaton ceases his Latin as everyone in the room looks surprised; Alexander hurls one of his boots, shouting, “OUT.”

Everyone scatters, leaving husband and wife alone. 

Alexander moves towards the bed; instinctively, Meg reaches underneath the pillows, pulling out the dinner knife and pointing it at him.

She is dismayed when Alexander laughs out loud. “Ye going te spread butter on me now, is that it?”

“My mistake,” she snarls, “I was just trying to help you get blood on the sheets.”

The laughter dies in his throat, his face turning several shades paler. “You...heard that?”

“The whole castle heard it.” She stands up, still pointing the knife at him. She is pleased to see him take a step back. “It will be your blood on the sheets if you don’t get out. Now.”

He nods stiffly, retrieving his discarded clothes before making a swift exit. It is not until the door shuts and his footsteps fade away that she sits on her bed, shaking. 

It is done, then. The handfasting, the wedding, and the wedding night, all done.

Now she just has to survive the marriage.


End file.
